


Tickling His Nibs

by BellaRisa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, BAMF John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Non-Consensual Tickling, Sherlock-centric, Tickle torture, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaRisa/pseuds/BellaRisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock would have certainly denied that a grown man, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, could be reduced to trying desperately to beg through a soaking-wet gag for a bit of tickling to stop stop <i> <b>STOP MY GOD STOP...</b> </i> </p><p>But beg he did, or would have had his words been remotely coherent...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tickling His Nibs

**Author's Note:**

> My 2016 Tumblr Squealing Santa fic, just a Johnlock quickie; enjoy :)

The thick, bristly hairs whisked along the tender, oh-so delicate skin beneath the long slim toes, sending rivers of ticklish electricity up through the spasm-riddled legs of the tightly bound detective. On and on the torment continued as the largest toes were bent and held firmly, allowing the soft instrument of torture to swirl and swish against the balls of the slender, ghostly pale feet. Sherlock was absolutely bouncing against the mattress to which he was tied spread-eagle, his shrieks of utter agony muffled by the kerchief his assailant had stuffed between his furious lips. The tickling was diabolical and without a hint of humanity; his tormentor had no pity, none indeed. As brilliant as Sherlock was, this torture was so… _relentless_ …that there was no chance of concentration and therefore no time to think his way out of his predicament. That may have been worse torture than what was now being done to his horribly sensitive thighs. 

And it _was_ horrible. Fingernails drew appallingly light circles and squiggles all over the backs of his thighs, held bare and vulnerable by an arm beneath his knees, while the fronts were treated to the fluffy implement that had been so efficient on his soles and toes. On a day with more dignity, and certainly more clothing than a simple pair of blue Y-fronts and nothing else, Sherlock would have certainly denied that a grown man, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, could be reduced to trying desperately to beg through a soaking-wet gag for a bit of tickling to stop stop _**STOP MY GOD STOP.** _ But beg he did, or would have had his words been remotely coherent. As it was all he could do was mewl pitifully, tears of frustration running along those sharp cheekbones and pooling by his ears; ears that had already been thoroughly licked and traced and otherwise abused while Sherlock tried and failed to hide them against his bony shoulders; the way his arms were bound there was no way to protect his ticklish ears, nor his neck nor that delicious area just beneath his chin; fingertips and other methods had ruthlessly devoured that sweet spot while the detective shook his head and uttered low sniggers so deliriously adorable they nearly melted the heart of his tormentor. Nearly. Not quite. 

Had Mrs. Hudson been at home she would have thumped her broom handle against her ceiling when the tickling began under Sherlock’s arms; the thin, nearly translucent skin there was so deathly ticklish that even through the gag Sherlock’s SCREAMS of laughter shook the bed and the building; the window actually rattled, something often exaggerated in pulp and lurid fiction. Each hollow was in turn kissed and licked and otherwise ticklishly loved upon, and of course treated to the Furry Device of Doom, as it was now called in what little mind Sherlock had left at the moment. And when the Evil One straddled his waist and began tickling and tickling and TICKLING both sides at once, the sounds coming from the mop-haired, sweaty shivering soul would have been at home in any dungeon of the Inquisition. One would think this would have given the torturer at least a bit of pause. Not at all. He tickled on, and on, until the silent laughter and tightly shut eyes gave him reason to think that perhaps this ticklish miscreant needed a break after all. 

A small break. And a chance to redeem himself. Maybe. 

John’s grin was an impressive display of Evil Affection as he used firm strokes along the chest and forehead to calm his lover down. Removing the gag, he watched as great gulps of air were taken in. Offered a glass of water for slow sips before leaning over and peering directly into Sherlock’s bleary, teary eyes. 

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes. Do we understand one another?” 

Sherlock nodded, his reluctance quite obviously at war with his sense of self-preservation. Discontinue to insist that the Fuzzy Monstrosity be removed from his beloved doctor’s face, or be tickled until his mind was jelly and he very likely wet this bed. HIS bed. Hang it all…

“Fine, keep it. Walk about looking like that if you please, it’s nothing to me, everyone knows I’m brilliant; my reputation can stand my being seen with a haggard old man…” 

Oh. Oh dear. 

Their eyes met, deeply. John’s narrowed as Sherlock’s widened. 

The gag was swiftly returned to its former place, muffling the renewed _shrieks_ as the mustache in question twitched and tickled across a pair of horrendously ticklish Consulting nipples. It would be a long, long night indeed.


End file.
